When Gears Grind: A Steampunk Pride & Prejudice
by theofoz
Summary: What happens when local tinkerer Lizzy Bennet, so clever with machines, meets an upper crust scientist named Fitzwilliam Darcy? A battle of wits and inventions! A little OC, a lot ahistorical, and pretty silly.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: Just a little bit of fun with a one-shot, steampunk version of the opening of P&amp;P. Just always wanted to try it! History purists, beware...**_

"Lizzy?" Charlotte called hesitantly, peering into the barn.

"Over here," came a muffled answer from inside the gloom. "Come on in."

Charlotte walked carefully into the dim structure, knowing all too well of the hazards that lay within. "What are you working on?" she asked, picking her way around gears, planks, and other debris toward the figure of her friend, bent over some contraption. As usual.

"Pump," Elizabeth said, around the stick clenched in her teeth.

"And what in the world is in your mouth?" Charlotte asked.

"It's a sort of quill," Elizabeth answered, sitting up and removing it from her mouth and twirling it in her fingers. "Too hard to use inkpots with machines, don't you know. It's a metal quill that uses a stick of lead to mark. Just a little something I whipped up for use in the Palace."

Her sister, Jane, had jokingly referred to Elizabeth's barn as the "Palace of Mysteries" once, and the name had stuck.

"And what's that?" Charlotte pointed at the small but very bright light next to Elizabeth's worktable.

"Lamp," came the answer, muttered around the stick again, as Elizabeth crouched back over the metal cylinder in front of her.

"Yes, Lizzy, thank you. I can see that. But what kind of lamp is that? I've never seen something so bright and steady."

"Huh," Elizabeth grunted, and Charlotte waited patiently, knowing it was difficult to distract her friend from a task at hand.

"Did you forget that there's an assembly tonight?" Charlotte finally asked, watching Lizzy's long, graceful fingers move over the metal. "I know it's not your sort of thing..."

"What are you talking about?" Elizabeth said, dropping the quill-like apparatus out of her mouth and wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a trail of grime. "I love dancing."

"Yes, well," Charlotte said, clearing her throat, "I rather think you've lost track of time then."

Elizabeth noticed then that her friend was in her very best dress, looking anxiously around her as if the barn might infect her with dirt. Elizabeth pursed her lips and squinted at the water clock she kept across the room. "Damn," she swore softly. Charlotte winced at the epithet.

"The embroidered russet gown," Elizabeth said, nodding at Charlotte's dress as she wiped her hands on her trousers. "You must have some significant quarry tonight to bring out that one."

Charlotte smiled at her friend, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Do you mean to tell me that you have not heard the news? That seems impossible, what with your mother being...your mother. And your sisters... Just how long have you been in here, Lizzy?" Charlotte demanded as Elizabeth began to clean her tools and lay them carefully in their places.

Elizabeth shrugged.

"Netherfield Hall has been let," Charlotte pronounced, "by a young bachelor named Bingley. He is coming tonight, along with his sisters. He is said to be quite handsome," Charlotte noted, "with 5,000 a year."

Elizabeth continued putting away her tools. "Ah, I see. The fact that he is a man, unmarried, and pleasant to look at, well he must surely be in want of a wife. But the joyous news that he also happens to possess 5,000 a year? That has no doubt lighted hearts afire all the way to Meryton."

"Laugh all you want, Lizzy," Charlotte said, "but you should know he has a friend with him..."

"Who is no doubt richer and more handsome..."

"He is, indeed, but more to the point, he is also a Member of the Royal Society for Improving Natural Knowledge." Her friend froze. "How's that for hearts afire, eh Lizzy?"

"I shall have to put on a dress," Elizabeth muttered.

"Yes, and quickly too. If you are not ready in 30 minutes, Jane and I shall have to leave without you. Your mother, father, and younger sisters have already gone ahead."

Elizabeth blew out the lamp, sliding a metal lever along its base before hanging it on the wall and walking out into the setting sun.

"And what was that lamp?"

"Oh, it's gas," Elizabeth said absently. "The chamber below keeps it under pressure and feeds a small amount at a time up through a pipe, which has a small ignition switch."

"Gas?" Charlotte repeated.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied with enthusiasm. "I was able to obtain a large canister from a coalbed up north. Wonderful stuff, though it has to be handled carefully," she noted ruefully, pointing to her right eyebrow, which had been partially blown off the day before.

"My word," was Charlotte's response. "Should you be working with such dangerous materials?"

"Tis not so dangerous," Elizabeth said dismissively, "one just has to be comfortable with volatility. Indeed, I expect there will be gas lamps all over London within a few years time."

"If you say so," Charlotte responded, "though I suspect your poor eyebrow might beg to differ. Now hurry, will you?"

25 minutes later, Elizabeth reemerged into the front parlor, face freshly scrubbed and wearing a lace-trimmed, light blue cotton gown, with a dove gray sleeveless overlay, gathered just under the bosom with an intricate metal clasp. Her hair was not curled, but was upswept in a respectable twist, with a gleaming copper headband settled into her mahogany brown strands. A tiny charm at the front of the headband jingled lightly when she walked.

"That was quick," her sister, Jane, commented with a smile.

"It's just not fair," Charlotte sighed, looking at her friend with an appraising eye. "I could spend hours in front of a mirror and not look half so good. How did you do that?"

"And I could spend a lifetime sighing over my image in a pond and my reflection would never be Jane's, who can hardly bring herself to look at a mirror at all out of sheer modesty," Elizabeth responded. "But I am content to merely ride in her wake through the admiring sea of men that froths about her." Jane swatted at her sister. "Besides, you know you are irresistible in that gown, Charlotte. Shall we?"

They arrived at the dance not long behind the rest of the Bennet family, who were riding in what Elizabeth dismissed as the "unimproved" carriage. Mrs. Bennet declared it more "elegant" and "refined," or more often just referred to it as "the safe one."

"My word, Lizzy," Charlotte panted, smoothing her hair down. "I don't know what you did to this thing to make it move so fast."

"Tis not a pretty phaeton," Jane noted, untying her bonnet, which she knew to wear from past experience, "but it will surely get you where you want to be."

Elizabeth grinned at them and ran her hand appreciatively along the metal bolts along the side before handing the reigns over to the footman. "It's amazing what a few well-placed springs and a good axle can do," she murmured.

The Assembly was quite lively, though there were decidedly more young ladies than there were gentlemen, and so dance partners were scarce. Mr. Bingley was, therefore, a most welcome addition, and fortunately, a most willing one. He danced every dance, talked with everyone he met, and was generally thought to be an amiable and well-formed man. The rest of his party, however, did not make quite as good an impression. The next day, no one could remember exchanging a single word with either of Mr. Bingley's sisters. His scientific friend, a Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire, danced only with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, Bingley's sisters, and Mr. Hurst appeared to be in his cups and incapable of dancing from the first notes that played.

Elizabeth was sitting out one of the dances for want of a partner, when she observed Mr. Bingley with his friend, who had a pinched look on his face, as though he smelt something unpleasant. She was not quite close enough to hear their conversation, and made a quick decision to help nature along. Reaching into a hidden pocket in her overlay, she withdrew a small metal device, which she inserted into her ear.

"Did you see her, Darcy?" Charles Bingley exclaimed breathlessly to his friend. "She is exquisite - the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld." Elizabeth was pleased to see that Bingley was pointing out her sister.

"Yes, well, you seem to have found the only woman with any appeal in the entire place."

"Now, Darcy, I beg to differ. I have never met so many pleasant ladies in all my life; there are a number of very pretty girls here."

Darcy crossed his arms and made a snorting noise.

"There, right over there. That's Miss Bennet's sister. She is quite beautiful, and I understand from Miss Bennet, an accomplished inventor. That should interest you." Elizabeth looked down in alarm, as soon as she realized they were staring right at her.

"She is tolerable, I suppose. Not handsome enough to tempt me, and God save us from country mechanicals. They will bore you to death with blueprints for a better plow and their ardent desire for a patent for the backyard still."

Elizabeth pressed her lips together and returned the so-called gentleman's regard unabashedly. He was, she had to admit, rather a handsome man, with his dark curling hair and high brow. His nose was straight and fine, and his lip bow-shaped, above a strong chin. But his countenance was so proud and ill-tempered as to render him unattractive, it was later widely agreed.

She noted that he had the pin of the Royal Society in his lapel, and had some kind of monocle over his eye, which she immediately suspected had a magnifying lens. So she looked him in the eye, scowled at him, and slowly withdrew her earpiece, making no attempt to hide it. "Dreadful man," she mouthed. Elizabeth was satisfied when she saw his monocle pop out in surprise, and curtseyed lightly in his direction before fleeing to the other side of the room.

Soon, she had a small crowd of amused friends around her.

"And then his eyeglass dropped straight into his cup of punch!" she recounted.

"Truly, Lizzy?" Charlotte laughed.

"Truly! Perhaps I should seek a patent for that. An eyeglass washer for disagreeable gentlemen." Her circle of admirers roared with laughter, unaware that they had an audience across the hall.

"Eyeglass washer, indeed," Mr. Darcy muttered to himself, taking his own earpiece out.


	2. Chap 2: A Little Charcoal for the Vapors

_**well, I intended this to be a one shot, but how about another shot?**_

The next morning unfurled slowly in the Bennet household, given that the entire family had partaken of entirely too much punch at the Meryton Assembly. Mrs. Bennet, in particular, was in a foul mood.

"Lydia," she snapped, "get your head off the table."

"But I'm tired, Mama!" her youngest daughter whined.

"Have a care, girl. This is not your bedchamber. Kitty, stop that coughing this instance! Have a little compassion on my poor nerves. You tear them to pieces."

Kitty blinked at her mother in confusion.

"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," Mr. Bennet commented blandly from behind his newspaper. "She times them ill."

"I do not cough for my own amusement," she responded fretfully.

"And Mr. Bennet," his wife fussed, "why must you always be reading? The breakfast table is hardly the place."

"It's well past breakfast time, Mama," Jane pointed out gently.

"It is breakfast whenever we eat it," her mother glared at her. "Lizzy," she exclaimed, whirling around to flagellate the next member of her family, only to drop her jaw in surprise.

"What," she said slowly, "are you drinking?"

"It is egg mixed with a little alkaline powder," she replied calmly.

"Then why, pray tell, is it nearly black?"

"That would be the charcoal."

"The what?" Her mother exclaimed, her mouth a perfect O of surprise.

"Charcoal," Lizzy smiled at her, showing off her gray teeth. "It is wonderful for absorbing angry stomach juices. Would you like some?" Lizzy said politely, holding the threatening brew out to her mother. Jane guffawed.

"That is the least ladylike laugh I have ever heard," Mrs. Bennet scolded her oldest daughter, while she waved Lizzy's noxious liquid away. "Mr. Bingley will never call on you if you whinny like a horse, Jane."

Jane's face fell, and she pushed her food around her plate.

"Madame," one of the serving girls interrupted, with a small curtsy for Mrs. Bennet. "Lady Lucas has come calling."

"Has she now?" Mrs. Bennet said, a hungry gleam in her eye. "Well, show her in, stupid girl!" The young woman curtseyed again so hastily she nearly tripped herself, and ran from the room.

"Really, Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Bennet said, again from the safety of his newspaper duck blind, "you must stop frightening the help. You know how long it took us to engage a new girl last time."

The table was saved the displeasure of a response with the arrival of Lady Lucas and her three children. Lady Lucas was a good neighbor; she was pleasant to be with, well informed, and neither bright nor beautiful enough to detract from her friends. Her eldest daughter, known as quite a clever girl and so understandably still unmarried at the advanced age of 27, was Elizabeth's particular friend, Charlotte.

"Do come in," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "As you can see, you have caught us at our table," she managed to convey that this was surely the height of bad manners without actually saying so. "But you may as well join us. I set a good table, I do, and there is plenty for everyone."

"How gracious of you, my dear Mrs. Bennet," her neighbor gushed, ignoring the slight, as she was used to such commentary from her friend. "We would be delighted, wouldn't we, my dears?"

"Certainly," Charlotte said, with a conspiratorial smile at her friends, which quickly became a frown. "Unless you mean to say we shall have to consume whatever it is Lizzy is drinking."

"Not at all," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "I assure you, I have nothing to do with that vile potion."

"It is not vile at all," protested Lizzy. "Well, it is not delicious, I suppose," she allowed, "but it has a purpose other than nourishment or delectation."

Charlotte arched an eyebrow at her.

"It is possible I may have indulged in a bit too much punch last night," Elizabeth commented loftily. "It is a curative."

Charlotte examined the gray drink, which had debris floating on a slimy film across the top. "Are you sure the curative is not worse than the ailment?"

"I should drink all the punch I like and never get sick," Charlotte's younger brother declared.

"Oh, you should not," Mrs. Bennet scolded the boy. "You are far too young for such thoughts."

"Am not!" The boy returned heatedly.

"Are too!" She shot back, much to the mortification of her elder daughters and amusement of their friend.

"My mother lets me have punch whenever I like," he yelled, "so you can't stop me."

"That's quite enough dear," his mother said, fanning her crimson face.

"If you tried to drink an entire bowl," Mrs. Bennet said after a short pause, "I should stop you. And that is that. Now have some bread. Well, dear Charlotte," she said, getting down to business, "you started the evening off quite well. You danced the first dance with Mr. Bingley."

"I rather think he preferred his second partner," Charlotte demurred.

"I'm afraid I don't take your meaning, Charlotte." Jane said, frowning down at the table.

"Mr. Bingley scarcely took his eyes off you all evening, Jane, don't be silly," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, swatting her daughter on the arm. "Yes," she said turning to her neighbor, "I would not be at all surprised if we see a wedding this spring. Isn't exciting! My daughter, married, and to such a pleasant man. And he has 5,000 a year! Did you know?"

"I believe I did hear that," Lady said dryly, as she had been the one to share that nugget with her neighbor. The two women launched into a rapid fire of all the details they had each harvested about the Bingley family.

"Anyone for a walk?" Elizabeth said brightly.

"That sounds delightful," Charlotte said quickly.

"Indeed," agreed Jane, rising immediately from the table.

"Thank God we were able to escape," Elizabeth muttered, as the three women walked quickly toward the woods. "And without the others." Charlotte's younger sister, Maria, was not as objectionable as the younger Bennets, but nonetheless suffered from a somewhat tepid nature.

"Yes, well, our mothers do have a point. Bingley really did watch you all night, Jane."

"Oh I don't know about that," Jane said modestly. "But he is quite a handsome man, I will give you that. He is everything a young man should be, has everything a young man should."

The two other women chuckled at that statement, and Jane's cheeks flushed.

"You are both terrible people. I meant that in a completely innocent and complimentary way."

"I am sure he returns the thoughts. What did he call her, Lizzy? An angel?"

"Indeed," she smiled, "the most beautiful woman there. What say you to a wager, Charlotte? I say he will contrive to see her again before the week is out."

"I say before the day is out."

"Oh, you two. I am sure he is always making such compliments to young ladies of his acquaintance."

"They may well be," Lizzy chortled, "but it happens to be true in your case."

Jane scowled mildly at her.

"Cheer up, sister. It could worse. He could have said you were merely "tolerable," mind you."

"That dreadful Mr. Darcy," Charlotte exclaimed. "I cannot believe he said that about you!"

"Oh, Lizzy," Jane said. "I am sure he did not mean anything by it."

"Ha! I believe I take his meaning quite well, thank you."

"In any case," Charlotte soothed, "I don't expect he'll be here long. Looked as though life among the rude mechanicals was giving him a bad case of the vapors."

Elizabeth laughed heartily. "Yes, you must be right and we have misjudged him; it was actually out of his consideration that he kept his distance from everyone. And that would explain why Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst always appeared as though hey smelt something unfortunate."

Even Jane began to laugh at that. Most likely, it was their collective mirth that kept them from noticing the approaching horses.

"Why, Miss Bennet!" Came a sudden voice ahead of them, causing all three ladies to jump. "I did not expect to see you here, wandering about in the woods!" It was Charles Bingley, astride a chestnut mare, with his friend Darcy just behind him on a magnificent white stallion.

"Mr. Bingley!" Jane gasped, with a hurried curtsy. Charlotte and Elizabeth bowed their heads in his direction.

"I win again," Charlotte whispered.

"I wonder at your surprise," Elizabeth called out gently to Mr. Bingley, ignoring her friend. "As I do believe we are on my father's property at the moment."

Bingley swung easily down from the saddle, his shapely legs on good view in his close-cut riding breeches.

"Well, Darcy," he said lightly, "it appears you were right, as usual. He kept insisting that the property line for Netherfield does not extend so far in this direction. But it's not as though we have our own surveying equipment," Elizabeth noticed that Darcy had just palmed some kind of of instrument, "So we have been exploring," he explained apologetically. Darcy said nothing, remaining in his saddle, his lips pressed rigidly together.

"If it is not too inconvenient, may we walk with you a moment?" Bingley inquired politely.

"Of course," Jane responded immediately. "We should be glad of the company."

There was the unmistakable sound of a sigh coming from the direction of the white stallion. A moment later, Darcy dismounted. Elizabeth could not help noticing that riding breeches were even more favorable to his form than Mr. Bingley's were.

"Vapors," Elizabeth muttered, attempting to cover her notice. Charlotte stifled a giggle.

Bingley, leading his horse by the bridle, offered Jane his arm, and they set off walking, conversing easily.

"And how are you today, Mr. Darcy?" Charlotte said politely.

"Fine," he ground out. "But I haven't got the vapors, if that is what you wish to know."

Charlotte and Elizabeth froze, staring at him, and he smirked knowingly at them.

"Oh dear," Elizabeth said under her breath.

"Shall we?" he asked, inclining his head in the direction Jane and Mr. Bingley had wandered. He did not offer either young woman his arm as he discreetly removed his earpiece.

They walked in silence for a time, forced to listen to the pleasantries of the enthusiastic couple ahead of them.

"How long will you stay in the countryside?" Charlotte finally asked.

"I am at Bingley's disposal," Darcy responded gloomily, "but hope to return to London before long."

"You much prefer London, then?" Elizabeth inquired.

He shot a glance at her, his forehead wrinkling briefly before he responded.

"To this place, yes."

"Is there another place you prefer, then?" Elizabeth pressed, stifling her irritation.

"I prefer my own home in Derbyshire and the company there," he said stiffly.

"Ah," she responded, unable to restrain herself, "then it is the company here that you find objectionable."

"At the present, yes," he answered, and then flushed. "Forgive me," he said, clearing his throat, "that was somewhat ungracious. Bingley is a close friend; I am very fond of him. And I am sure I will enjoy our walk. I just do not easily converse upon matters that are private to me."

Neither woman saw fit to comment, and Darcy remained visibly uneasy, for he considered himself quite a gentleman and felt that his comment had not been befitting his station.

"Is your eyebrow always thus?" he said, gesturing at Elizabeth's face, hoping that a question about her person would communicate that he was actually interested in the answer.

"That seems a rather personal question for someone who so values privacy," she said, smiling slightly.

"She blew it off," Charlotte said hastily. "With, what was it, Lizzy, gas?"

Elizabeth scowled slightly at her friend, not wishing to highlight one of her more unsuccessful ventures.

"I beg your pardon?" Darcy explained. "Miss...miss..." he struggled to remember her name.

"Elizabeth," Charlotte supplied. "Miss Elizabeth."

"Miss Elizabeth," he exclaimed, "how came you by such a dangerous substance as gas?"

"Tis not dangerous," she replied, waggling a hand dismissively.

"It most certainly is," he declared, looking at her eyebrow pointedly.

"It will grow back," she laughed. "And it was well worth the sacrifice. I have found gas to be quite useful." She described the lamp she had fashioned in the Palace of Mysteries.

"Did you say Palace of Mysteries?" He interrupted, and she explained, avidly describing her workshop.

His gaze slid down from her injured brow to meet her eyes, and he was startled to see the intelligence and humor that sparkled there. They were very fine eyes, in fact. Lovely eyes. He started again when he realized he was staring at her.

"Indeed," he said, hurriedly looking away, "I have just such a workshop, myself." He cleared his throat, not wishing to get into a further conversation about what he considered to be intimate subjects. "If you will excuse me," he said, "I believe Bingley has forgotten that we have an appointment. Thank you for... for the favor of your company."

The two women curtseyed slightly at him, and watched as he led his horse past, calling out to his friend.

"Well," Charlotte breathed, "that was...interesting."

"Arrogant, unfortunate man," Elizabeth muttered.

"Actually," Charlotte chuckled, "I rather think he might like you, Lizzy."

Elizabeth just laughed at the ridiculous suggestion, linking arms with Jane as she waved goodbye to her latest conquest.

The chance meeting in the woods was the first of many encounters with the new arrivals over the next few weeks. The women of the Bingley household called on the Miss Bennets, and vice versa, as was expected. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst agreed that they were quite fond of Jane, whom they found gracious and modest, despite her humble circumstances. Her sister, Elizabeth, not so much. "I sometimes get the sense she is mocking us," Miss Bingley complained to her brother, "it is unacceptable that she would treat her betters so."

"Now, Caroline," he responded reasonably, "her father is a gentleman."

She sniffed. "With not much to his name. And the mother is just outright intolerable."

Bingley wisely said nothing, as his sisters went on to decry the behavior of the younger Bennet sisters.

For their part, the Bennet sisters were not in unanimous humor. Lydia and Kitty clamored for the attention of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst at every opportunity, declaring them fine ladies and assailing them with questions about the latest London fashions. This resulted in a dilemma for the two women, as they struggled to balance their disdain with their pleasure in displaying that they were, indeed, foremost experts on the topic. Mary declared such interests entirely frivolous and Elizabeth thought the two sisters tedious and supercilious, but Jane scolded her, noting that she found them kind.

"To you, maybe. Their brother's influence, no doubt," Elizabeth sniffed, as she twisted the gears on the pump in front of her.

"Oh yes," Jane agreed dreamily. "His manners leave nothing to be desired."

"That is not what I meant," Elizabeth started, "Never mind," she grumped, as her sister wafted away.

"She's quite taken with him," Charlotte commented, as she watched her friend work.

"Indeed," Elizabeth grunted.

"She should let it show a bit more, you know. Men want a bit of encouragement, lest their attention wander to greener and more welcoming pastures."

"Jane is not so easily plowed," Elizabeth agreed, to Charlotte's groan. "She is so amiable and guarded in public, but I can tell you she is far less so in private, and I have had to listen many nights as we lie in bed to just how besotted she is. From my observations over the past few weeks, the feelings are returned."

"They are quite well matched," Charlotte agreed, "but I perceive he is not entirely sure of her - oh yes, she is perfectly welcoming, but she is so with everyone, as you say. She should let him know more directly of her affections."

"Perhaps," Elizabeth allowed, "but I don't think she has it in her to be so forward. It is too bad we could not blend a bit of Lydia into Jane, and Jane into Lydia."

"Some tincture for you to invent, then. Surely there must be a way."

Elizabeth chuckled. "I am a scientist, not a sorceress, dear Charlotte. In any case, they have only just met and need some time to know each other better."

"I wish Jane every success and would be just as happy if she were to marry tomorrow," Charlotte mused, to a raised eyebrow from Elizabeth. "Truly," she nodded firmly. "I do not think the prospects for a happy marriage actually improve with knowledge; whether you have known a person for a day or a year, you will perceive their true defects once you are united in a marriage. And so it matters not if they were to wed hastily; they are just as likely to be unhappy as if they had a long association. Best to strike while the iron is still hot, for at least there will be that to look back on."

"I never realized what a romantic you are, Charlotte," Elizabeth said dryly.

"You have no idea," her friend murmured.

Some days later, Elizabeth saw the truth in Charlotte's words about her sister at a large party at the Lucas house. She did not agree, however, that Jane's equanimity in any way dimmed Mr. Bingley's ardor. He made no attempt to disguise his regard, to the evident dismay of his snooty sisters.

So focused was she on her sister that Elizabeth did not notice that she herself was becoming an object of some interest to none other than Mr. Darcy. Of course, he was not entirely aware of that fact himself. He had merely realized that his initial impression was mistaken, and that she was of more than tolerable good looks. Although he still found her form somewhat lacking in symmetry, which was important to his mathematical eye, he realized that her figure was light and pleasing, her dark and captivating eyes framed by a pretty face. Even the burnt eyebrow only made her more intriguing. Far more intriguing, he thought with disdain, than the empty-headed Caroline Bingley, who gossiped and preened with all the finesse of a begowned mackerel.

Without admitting it to himself, he felt compelled to know Elizabeth Bennet better, and so positioned himself at the Lucas party so that he could overhear her conversations. This did not, however, go unnoticed.

"Why do you think Mr. Darcy saw fit to listen in to my conversation with Colonel Forster?" Elizabeth asked Charlotte.

"I'm afraid I can't say," she responded. "Perhaps you should ask him yourself?"

"Perhaps I just did," Elizabeth chortled, eying Darcy with a wicked tap to her ear, indicating that she knew he was using his earpiece. He blushed ever so slightly, but then affected an air of great determination and made his way toward her.

"Miss Lucas, Miss Elizabeth," he said with a slight bow.

"So," Elizabeth started, "I am unsure of the acuity of your device, but did you not think I expressed myself uncommonly well to Colonel Forster just now on the subject of the ball?"

"It is my observation that young ladies generally express themselves uncommonly well on that particular subject," he hedged.

"Elizabeth," Charlotte interrupted, with a sly smile. "Won't you play one of your instruments for us? We still have that device here that you brought by last week, the one that requires the flame?"

"The calliope?" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Some friend you are. That might well deafen everyone in the room," she explained to Darcy. "It is quite loud."

"But such a jolly sound, and it is here. Won't you entertain us, my dearest friend?"

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at Charlotte, but complied nonetheless, lighting a fire under the great squat piece of metal.

"You should all take a few steps back," she cautioned her audience, as she stood at the metal keys, waiting for the water to heat.

The strange, loping melody that poured forth from the machine was no Bach concerto, to be sure, but the guests found the sound to be quite amusing and once they had removed their hands from their ears, applauded Elizabeth enthusiastically. She bowed and gave way to her sister, Mary, who played on a more traditional piano.

Mary was quite accomplished and duly vain about it, but she lacked any kind of feeling for the music. So the gentlemen and ladies soon lost interest in listening to her performance, and began to dance instead.

"Capital, Miss Elizabeth!" Sir William Lucas shook her hand with enthusiasm. "That was a, um, a singular performance, to be sure. It was very...loud. Delightfully loud. But I cannot imagine why you young people are just standing here when there is dancing afoot!" He took Elizabeth's arm and held it out to Darcy, almost as an offering. "Here, Mr. Darcy, is she not one of the prettiest girls in our county? And it is rare that she should be clean. Ah, erm, what I mean to say is, she should usually have grease or somesuch on her trousers. Ah, erm, indeed, should you not dance with her?"

"No no," Elizabeth said in alarm, more at the thought of being close to Mr. Darcy than being called a trouser-wearing grease monkey, "Mr. Darcy does not dance."

"Well, now, Miss Eliza, I can happily correct you on that score, for I saw him myself at the Meryton Ball. He is a fine dancer. An uncommonly fine dancer!"

"I thank you," Darcy said, with a stiff little bow, holding out his hand to Elizabeth.

"Then perhaps you should dance with him, Sir Lucas," Elizabeth teased, placing the old gentleman's hand in Darcy's, "for you are justly known for your footwork."

"Oh, silly child," the noble tutted, pulling his hand back smartly. But he was obviously flattered, nonetheless. "Perhaps in my youth, but no longer, I am afraid."

"Nonsense. You are nimbler than any man half your age," she soothed, smirking at Darcy and patting Sir Lucas on the hand. She spun and traipsed away, leaving Darcy in disbelief, his hand still out.

Caroline Bingley happened by soon after.

"I know precisely what you are thinking, Darcy," Caroline said, noting the cross look on his face.

"I highly doubt that, Miss Bingley," he answered coolly.

"You are thinking how insupportable it would be to pass many more evenings in this manner," she continued, undeterred. "No doubt, you are thinking of the insipidity, and yet the noise. The nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! So tiresome. I have never been more annoyed, and I am certain you feel the same."

"Actually," he said, turning to look at her, "that is not what I was thinking at all."

"Really? Then do tell. I would be most amused to hear of it."

"I have been meditating on what pleasure a pair of very fine eyes, even without an eyebrow, can bestow when they adorn the face of a pretty woman."

Caroline froze, staring at him in dismay.

Finally recovering, she asked, "And who, might I ask, is possessed of these fine eyes?"

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he said softly, thinking that she also had a rather fine bosom, from what he could ascertain. He started when he realized Caroline was staring at him in outrage, briefly worried that he might have spoken that last part aloud.

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" she exclaimed. "Well, I am all astonishment! Your parents would be so proud. When is the wedding?"

"That is so typical of women like you, Caroline," Darcy bit out, not noticing the delight on Caroline's face at his use of her first name, "I merely admire her eyes, and you jump straight from admiration to love and from love to matrimony."

"Oh yes," she hissed, "she will make a fine mistress for Pemberley, and a wonderful guide for Georgiana. And such a charming mother in law!" Darcy paled at the latter thought, and Caroline swept away in triumph.

The fearsome woman in question was at her worst the next morning, as the Bennets were again feeling the punchbowl at their breakfast table. There was still no interest in partaking of Elizabeth's curative, however.

"What news, Jane?" Mrs. Bennet demanded. "Did you speak with Mr. Bingley last night? Surely, he will invite you to call on him at his home soon."

Right on cue, before Jane could answer, the steward entered the dining room with a letter for Jane, which she took gingerly, as though it might burn her fingertips.

"It is from Netherfield," Jane read nervously.

"Well?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, "open it, my dear!"

Jane hastily opened the letter and peered at it.

"It is from Caroline Bingley," she relayed. "She has invited me for tea, this very afternoon!"

A wave of excited titters rolled through the younger Bennets, and Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands together as if in prayer, closed her eyes, and shouted "Yes!" But she quieted when she opened her eyes only to see Jane's happy expression drop.

"Mr. Bingley will not be at home," Jane read in a whisper.

They all stared at her.

"What?" her mother exclaimed, snatching the letter away. "That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard."

"I can think of a few more ridiculous things," Lizzy muttered as she stirred her drink. She heard her father chuckle.

"What are you up to today, Lizzy?" he inquired. "Still working on the pump?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I'm afraid so. I am not quite certain why its output has fallen so much, but I feel certain I shall figure it out today. I believe it is a flaw in the intake valve. I may have to go into town to pick up some more metal filings."

"That is out of the question," Mrs. Bennet huffed. "Jane will need your...contraption to go to Netherfield."

Elizabeth's brow wrinkled. "Won't she take the boring carriage?" Lizzy asked. Even she admitted the family carriage was best for foul weather, given that her racing phaeton was open to the elements. Her barometer was definitely suggesting rain by the afternoon.

"Certainly not," Mrs. Bennet declared.

"But see here," Elizabeth said, pointing out the window at the darkening sky, "you do not have to trust my barometer," which her mother did not, "to see that it is going to rain."

Mrs. Bennet just smiled.

"What are you up to, Mrs. Bennet?" Her husband asked suspiciously.

"Nothing at all," she responded blandly. "Now Jane, dear, you had best go and get ready. You will want to look your best, I am sure. Elizabeth, please get that foul concoction out of my sight."

After breakfast, Mr. Bennet promptly retreated to his library and Lizzy to the Palace of Mysteries. In truth, she thought, machines are far less mysterious than men. And women, she acknowledged.

"But," she mused aloud, "is it man or woman who is the more inexplicable?" she chuckled at the thought. "Time will tell, I suppose."

Elizabeth was busy working a piece of metal with a hammer, so she did not immediately hear the rain begin to pelt the roof. When she paused and noticed the sound, she frowned and glanced upward.

"Oh dear," she muttered, hoping that Jane had made it to Netherfield ahead of the downpour.

She had not, of course, and a letter arrived that evening informing the Bennet household that Jane had taken ill and would be obliged to spend the night at Netherfield.

Mrs. Bennet crowed with delight. "It worked!" she exclaimed happily, helping herself to roasted potatoes. "I knew it would work."

"Yes, dear," Mr. Bennet muttered over his reading glasses, "those prissy society girls are no match for a mother who would put her daughter's life on the line for a little matchmaking."

"Oh, now, Mr. Bennet," she replied dismissively, "no one ever died of a cold."

"Many people have died of secondary infections, however," Lizzy pointed out.

"To die in the service of others is a noble sacrifice," Mary offered.

"And that applies how, exactly?" Lizzy asked, rolling her eyes.

"In the service of love," Lydia sighed, clasping her hands together, Kitty matching her every sigh and fluttering eyelash.

"Do you even know you're the older sister?" Lizzy snapped at Kitty, who dropped her hands, startled, and stared about her, cow-like.

"What?" she stammered.

"Nothing," Lizzy grumbled. "Pass the roast, please, Mama."

"Do not be so hard on your sisters, Miss Elizabeth," her mother said primly. "At least they are trying their best to be young ladies."

Elizabeth snorted.

"That is precisely what I mean, my dear," Mrs. Bennet frowned at her, her eyes narrowing as Elizabeth just shrugged.

"Being ladylike is overrated," she commented blithely, sticking an enormous piece of meat in her mouth and chewing loudly.

"So you say," Mrs. Bennet commented, "but mark my words, Lizzy, the day will come when you will wish to be seen as a lady. And you will be sorely pressed to figure out how to appear so. You will be sorry then you did not take my instruction. Mark my words."

Lizzy snorted again, and then nearly choked on her mouthful, much to the amusement of her younger sisters. She glared at them, and then she started laughing, too.

"Stranger things have happened, I suppose," she said easily.


	3. Chapter 3: Elderberry and Combat Boots

**_Alrighty then! How about another helping?_**

Elizabeth rose early the next morning to prepare the bellows for smelting. She had only just lit the fires when the stable boy came into the Palace, a messenger in tow.

The messenger stared openly at her, having never seen a female in such garb. She wore her work clothes, which consisted of a highly tailored, black and gray striped bodice with long sleeves, modest though close cut, given that loose fabric was dangerous for this kind of work. She also wore leather trousers, an apron, and gloves, which she had made for working in the forge.

Snapping off her right glove, she held her hand out. The note was not good news: Jane had taken a turn for the worse in the night and would be required to stay at Netherfield. The apothecary had been summoned.

"Not that old bleeder," she muttered to herself. "Not if I can help it."

"Thank your master for me," she said, "and please inform him that I shall be there directly to care for my sister."

The messenger nodded and melted away into the shadows, with one last, curious look at Elizabeth. She staunched the flame in the forge, wiped her brow with an old rag and hung the apron and gloves on a peg. On the next peg was a black skirt, which she wrapped around her and hooked at the waist, tying a wide, decorative belt over it.

"Mrs. Hill," she called, as she came through the doorway, reaching for her cloak.

"Yes, my dear?" Answered the housekeeper, emerging from the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her apron.

"I am going to Netherfield. We've had word that Jane is very poorly, indeed. I will need my kit out of the root cellar.

"Of course. I will send Ben down for it. Do you wish to prepare yourself," Mrs. Hill said diplomatically, "or shall he get it immediately?"

"Immediately is best," Elizabeth said grimly.

"It will take a half hour or more to ready the carriage," Mrs. Hill pointed out.

"No need," Elizabeth returned. "I can be nearly there on foot in that amount of time, and the carriage may well get stuck in these conditions, in any case." She was sitting on a bench, pulling on her special boots. A design of her own she had worked on with the Meryton cobbler, they were knee-high, made of leather and Brazilian rubber. They were marvelously effective at keeping the feet warm and dry in muddy and barnyard conditions, but unfortunately were atrociously ugly. Mrs. Hill openly winced as she watched her young mistress pull them on over her slippers.

"Are you sure, Miss Elizabeth?" she finally blurted. "Perhaps you would wish not to wear those particular shoes and just wait for the carriage?"

"No time," Elizabeth answered. "Please send Ben for my kit at once."

"Of course," Mrs. Hill sighed, hurrying toward the kitchen.

Elizabeth pulled her hair down and brushed at it hastily with her fingers, finally twisting it back into a knot and securing it with a copper hair ornament.

"It will have to do," she sighed.

She set out soon after into the new morning, her medical kit in the large reticule slung over her shoulder. In truth, Elizabeth would rather walk than be cooped up in a stuffy carriage, so she did not mind the fine mist that fell like a veil over her face or the mud that grabbed at her boots. She appreciated the beauty of such a morning, utterly silent but tremulous, as though there were a war between the sun and the rain up in the heavens, and the sky was holding its breath to see which would be victorious.

She arrived at Netherfield well within an hour and was shown into the front parlor, where Miss Bingley actually dropped her tea cup when Elizabeth entered the room. Mrs. Hurst and Mr. Darcy also stared at her, open mouthed. Mr. Hurst was snoring in a chair by the fire.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. "Good morning," she gave a slight curtsy. "I apologize for disturbing you, but I've come to see my sister."

Still no one spoke, until Miss Bingley burst out, "My God, did you walk all the way here?"

"I did," Elizabeth allowed. "It is not far; not even three miles." Silence consumed the room. "Where is Jane?" Elizabeth asked, as politely as she could.

"Just upstairs," Miss Bingley finally said, "the steward can show you to her room. The apothecary should be here sometime this morning."

"That is well," Elizabeth responded, "I thank you for your kindness to my sister." She promptly turned back into the hall. She was scarcely out of the room before Miss Bingley pounced.

"My word," she exclaimed. "That was extraordinary. Did you see her? Her hair all over the place? There must have been six inches of mud on her skirt, and some on her face, even! And what in the world was that on her feet? She appeared to be wearing small rowboats."

Mrs. Hurst made a sort of grunting noise of indignant agreement. Mr. Hurst snorted in his sleep, seemingly in sympathy with his wife.

"She looked quite the savage, don't you think, Darcy?"

Darcy was thinking instead that the cool morning air had brought a most becoming blush to Miss Elizabeth's cheeks.

"Whatever can she mean," Miss Bingley persisted, "by walking, of all things? It is quite outrageous."

Mrs. Hurst nodded and crossed her arms, and Darcy finally seemed to hear what she was saying.

"Well, I think it shows character," he shot back, "that she cares so much for her sister."

Miss Bingley narrowed her eyes at him.

"I see," she hissed. "And no doubt, the dirt on her face made her eyes appear that much finer? She would be so well received in the salons of London."

Darcy flushed and cleared his throat. "No, I daresay she would not be," he allowed.

Miss Bingley smiled triumphantly. "Yes, well, I shall invite her to stay and join us for supper so you will be able to say for certain by the end of the day. I would not wish you to have any doubts about your future wife."

"Do not be ridiculous, Caroline," he said coldly, rising to his feet and failing, once again, to notice her pleasure at the sound of her given name on his lips. "I think I shall find your brother and alert him to this latest arrival."

Miss Bingley watched him go, her eyes glinting. "Louisa, my dear, let us plan a meal, shall we?"

Upstairs, Elizabeth was stroking her sister's brow with a cool hand.

"Elizabeth, I am so happy to see you," her sister said weakly. "They have been so kind to me. So very kind, but I do not wish to impose. And I feel terrible - I am so glad you came."

"Of course I came, and I am not surprised you feel terrible - you are burning up," Elizabeth acknowledged. "Have they given you anything for the fever?" Jane shook her head, and Elizabeth promptly pulled a wooden box out of her reticule. She opened it up, plucking out a phial of some purplish syrup and a pinch of powder from two pouches, tipping the mixture into the glass on the table next to the bed.

"Elderberry, feverfew, and white willow," she instructed her sister. "Please drink it all." Then she ran a cloth in the washbasin, pouring a liquid from another bottle onto it before placing the cloth on Jane's forehead.

"Miss Elizabeth," Bingley said from the doorway, "I am so glad you are here." His nose wrinkled and he looked at her doubtfully. "But what is that odd smell?"

"It is cider vinegar," Elizabeth explained, "it will help draw out her fever, along with the tincture I just gave her. It should help with the headache and chills, too, dear one," she said to Jane.

"I see," he said, stepping into the room and eying her medical kit. "That is a most impressive array, Miss Elizabeth. I don't believe we shall have any need of the apothecary."

"I should say not," Elizabeth agreed with relief.

"Oh Mr. Bingley," Jane said faintly, attempting to hide her reddened nose behind a lace handkerchief, "I am so sorry to be such a burden on you with my illness."

"Oh it is no burden. Indeed, it is a pleasure," he said warmly, and then opened his eyes in an almost comical expression of dismay. "Er, ah, I mean, it is no pleasure that you are ill, of course, just a pleasure that you are here. Um, ah, that I may care for you." His entire face was flaming red by this point, and Elizabeth decided to show him some mercy.

"You are most kind, sir."

He smiled with relief that no one was laughing or offended, and bowed to the sisters. "You must both stay until you are completely well, Miss Bennet. I should never forgive myself if any harm were to come to you."

"It is no fault of yours, Mr. Bingley," Jane said gently, with a watery smile.

Yes, it is entirely our mother's fault, Elizabeth thought darkly.

"Well, I will leave you to your rest, then, Miss Bennet. If you do not mind, might I look in on you again later?" Jane nodded. "And Miss Elizabeth, as soon as you feel it is safe to leave your patient, you are welcome to join us in the parlor and for dinner. Do please stay with us until Jane is able to go home."

"Thank you, Mr. Bingley," Elizabeth said sincerely, "it is very much appreciated."

He bowed again, backing out of the room, his eyes never leaving Jane's face, right until he bumped into the doorframe and stumbled out the door.

The sisters just looked at each other. "He's a keeper," Elizabeth quipped, patting Jane's hands. "Shall I read to you, dear, while you fall asleep? I brought one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."

Jane nodded, already feeling better, as she listened to the pleasant sound of her favorite sister reading tales of romance and suffering.


	4. Chapter 4

_**This is a seriously glacial posting pace, I know, but I did decide to keep going. Again, if you're a stickler for history, this is not the fanfic for you! Just having fun...**_

At five o'clock, Elizabeth changed into the dress Caroline Bingley had graciously provided her, as none of her own things had yet arrived from Longbourn, even though a message had been sent early in the afternoon that she would be staying. She frowned as she fidgeted and tweaked the fabric, trying to settle the gown more comfortably.

"That dress quite suits you, Lizzy," Jane sniffled from the bed. "It's a good deal more...feminine than what you usually wear."

Elizabeth frowned down at herself. "If by "feminine" you mean that I resemble a cow presenting herself for milking, well, then I suppose you are correct." She tugged the fabric up higher on her chest, which only left her ankles clearly on display and the bodice askew. "I simply cannot wear this. It is indecent," she declared. "And how am I supposed to walk in these things?" She pointed at the satiny, pointed shoes with the tiny, elevated heels.

Jane giggled, provoking a coughing fit. "You are just accustomed to covering yourself up in trousers and leather tunics, with those awful boots," she gasped. "I promise you that the cut of your dress and kitten heels are quite fashionable this season."

"Well," Elizabeth's brow furrowed, "if you are certain..."

"I am," Jane sneezed thrice in quick succession, a high-pitched atchoo that sounded something like an indignant chipmunk.

"Here," Elizabeth sighed, handing her sister a cordial. "This should soothe your throat and help you sleep."

"Is it another tincture?" Jane asked, sitting up on the pillows and gulping down the proffered drink, only to cough and gag delicately, her eyes watering profusely.

"It's brandy," Elizabeth answered cheerfully. "I've left some for myself, as well. I have a feeling I will be needing it, too. Good night, dear."

"Enjoy your dinner," Jane said reproachfully, blotting at her streaming eyes.

"That seems highly unlikely," Elizabeth responded grimly.

She teetered down the stairs, clutching at the rails and cursing "whatever cruel, sadistic man" inflicted on womankind "these infernal shoes." To be fair, she knew some men also wore heeled shoes at court, but she refused to believe that anyone, male or female, with any self respect or intelligence would consent to walk about in such torturous devices.

"And where does that leave me?" she grumbled aloud, vowing silently to devise a feminine shoe that conveyed the same grace but with far more stability.

She finally reached the bottom of the stairs and wobbled toward the dining room, biting her lip and concentrating lest she turn an ankle or take a tumble. Shuddering, Elizabeth had a mental image of what might happen topside if her borrowed dress were disturbed in such a manner.

"It would be most indecorous," she muttered, as she turned the corner and was startled to find five sets of eyes looking at her. At least two sets flared wide, blinking in astonishment. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, however, looked suspiciously amused. Mr. Hurst was somewhat vacant in his watery regard, as was his usual wont.

"Indecorous, did you say?" Miss Bingley purred, her eyes lingering on Elizabeth's ample cleavage, pushed skyward by the tight bodice.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "Not at all. It was very kind of you to lend your dress to me," she returned pointedly. "I imagine you look quite lovely in this, though it would fit you rather differently, of course." She held her hand up straight and rigid, insinuating that their hostess was rather flat chested. "But no matter; I am sure I am among friends and you will forgive me my appearance."

"I assure you, there is nothing to forgive," Charles Bingley said admiringly. His sisters both glared at him, and Caroline scolded him under her breath for being too forward with their guest. While Mr. Darcy said nothing, his somewhat dazed expression communicated his obvious appreciation for Elizabeth's attributes. When he realized he was being observed by the lady of the house, he quickly schooled his features into a disapproving frown.

Elizabeth groaned inwardly and walked in with as much unsteady dignity as she could muster. Even so, she was barely saved from tripping over the carpet by Mr. Darcy's hand on her elbow.

"Allow me," he said in a husky voice, hastily clearing his throat. He then lifted his chin so he was staring down his long, aquiline nose at her, and Elizabeth wanted to snap at him to keep his noblesse oblige to himself. But she thought better of it when she realized she might not reach the table without some assistance.

"Thank you," she said, with what she hoped could be interpreted as a demure glance at her feet.

"Oh, Miss Elizabeth," Miss Bingley sang out, once they were all safely seated at the table. "I forgot to mention to you that a valise arrived for you earlier this afternoon. I shall have it sent up to your room."

Elizabeth started to scowl, and then thought better of it and inclined her head.

"You are all womanly graciousness," she gushed, watching with some satisfaction as Mr. Darcy pretended that his snort was a sneeze. He may be a pompous ass, she thought to herself, but at least he seemed to share her distaste for their simpering hostess. "I would not dream of imposing upon your kind hospitality, if I were not so concerned for my sister."

"Nonsense," Mr. Bingley cried from his perch at the head of the table, "it is no imposition whatsoever. You are always welcome here, Miss Elizabeth, and your sister certainly is. Er, well, what I mean to say is," he ran a finger under his collar, as his neck flushed bright red, "you are welcome. Any of you."

Mrs. Hurst made a sort of harrumphing sound.

Fortunately, just then, the first course arrived. It was a white soup, of course. Elizabeth was not overfond of the bland stuff, but she picked up her spoon nonetheless, as a matter of courtesy. She lifted it to her mouth and found much to her dismay that she had dripped soup down her exposed chest. Soup spoons all around the table paused wherever they were in their journey between bowl and mouth. There were loud titters from the distaff sections of the table and a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in Mr. Darcy's vicinity.

Elizabeth frowned down at the spoon and realized there were tiny perforations near the rim, which she had unfortunately failed to notice.

"Oh dear," she said, raising a hand to her face in feigned shock, and blotting suggestively at her soup-stained bosom. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley followed every motion of her hand, their heads bobbing slightly. "I am so sorry, Mr. Bingley," she said, startling him into raising his eyes guiltily to her face. "If I had only known you lacked a full set of proper spoons, I should have been glad to lend you some. Longbourn is, of course, a modest estate, but we do have functional cutlery."

"Here," he said cheerfully, holding his spoon out to her. "Mine seems to be fine, and I have not yet had a chance to use it. You will be saving me the trouble of eating white soup, which Caro knows I do not like."

"Charles!" his sister scolded. "That is most rude!"

"Or you may use mine," Mr. Darcy suddenly piped up. "For I do not care for white soup, either."

"In truth," Elizabeth said conspiratorially, "neither do I, though not so much so that I generally choose to wear it rather than eat it."

"Oh, fine," Miss Bingley all but growled, "then we shall just move to the next course."

The oysters that arrived next were a delicacy that Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley assumed Elizabeth would not be familiar with, but in that, they were disappointed.

"Oh excellent," she cried, upon seeing them. "I have not had oysters since I ceased growing them."

"Growing them?" Mr. Darcy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, indeed," Elizabeth answered, spearing one of the mollusks deftly and swallowing appreciatively.

"How, precisely, does one "grow" an oyster?" Mr. Darcy asked skeptically.

"Well," Elizabeth started, taking a quick sip of wine before responding. "One has to assemble a large trough and fill it with brackish water, and then place some sandy mud along the bottom. Then one has to obtain live oysters and place them in the trough."

Darcy asked her several questions about how she fed the creatures, how she managed climatic changes, and so on, much to the other guests' boredom.

"And it took you five years to get a crop of mature oysters?" Darcy questioned. "That hardly seems worth the effort and expense."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Likely not," she admitted. "There were more dead oysters than live ones, I'm afraid. But perhaps someday if it were scaled properly, it could work. In any case, I learned a great deal about the breeding habits of oysters."

Mrs. Hurst choked on the beast in question. Charles Bingley, however, laughed, as Mr. Hurst guzzled his drink.

"That is hardly a suitable topic for polite dinner conversation," Miss Bingley cried, but she did not look particularly upset as she eyed Mr. Darcy slyly.

Elizabeth smiled at her hostess. "What, oysters?" she inquired innocently.

"No, no," Miss Bingley corrected her, as the next course was brought out. "Breeding." She flushed. "Of animals."

Mr. Darcy stared at Miss Bingley with his eyebrows raised, and she fell silent, pressing her lips tightly together, while her sister wiped her brow with her napkin.

"Ah yes, well," Mr. Bingley hurriedly jumped in, "here comes the roast. Two roasts! My word. They look delicious, Caro," he consoled her. He quickly began to carve generous slices. "I believe this came from one of our tenants, did it not?"

"Yes, both roasts did," Caroline acknowledged, "but I assure you they are of the very highest quality. Allow me to personally serve."

Elizabeth watched her hostess closely, as she suspected the spiteful wretch was up to something yet again. Miss Bingley supervised her brother, insisting that he carve the meat into smallish pieces. Unfortunately, Elizabeth was still looking up when she placed a piece of meat in her mouth, a portion slightly larger than was strictly polite, but not nearly as enormous as what she would inhale at her own family table. Unfortunately, she immediately realized there was a problem as her teeth gripped the unyielding mutton. She picked up her napkin to discreetly spit out the stringy gristle, but Miss Bingley forestalled her.

"How is it, Miss Elizabeth?" All eyes turned to her, as she smiled and nodded politely, chewing fruitlessly. She noticed that Miss Bingley had had one of the two roasts discreetly removed, and Elizabeth assumed that meant she would be the only person experiencing her current difficulty.

"Is it satisfactory?" Miss Bingley said sweetly, her chin propped on her palm as she watched Elizabeth. "Do tell."

Elizabeth held the fork in one hand, and with the other, she managed to reach into the small reticule concealed at her waist, rummaging around carefully. Finally, her fingers closed over one of the tiny paper capsules she had been searching for. She extracted it and then balanced it on her knee and flicked it across the room, using her thumb and forefinger. It sailed under the table, barely clearing Mr. Hurst's ample bottom, and landed against the far wall with a loud snap. Everyone at the table jumped, looking at where the noise came from, and Elizabeth quickly pulled the dreadful mouthful into her napkin.

"What on Earth was that?" Louisa Hurst exclaimed, fanning her face. Mr. Darcy had leapt to his feet and examined the wall, leaning over abruptly and standing with a small puff of burnt paper in his fingers. He looked at it quizzically and brought it up to his nose.

"What is it?" Miss Bingley demanded.

"A discarded piece of paper," Mr. Darcy responded, as he nonchalantly tucked the paper into his waistcoat pocket and resumed his place at the table.

"Well, why did it make that noise?" she prodded.

"I have no idea," he answered, calmly taking a forkful of meat into his mouth. His expression suddenly darkened, and he pulled his napkin up to his mouth, coughing.

"Good lord, Caroline," he exclaimed, "I think you may have served us the most aged ram in this God-forsaken place. It is quite inedible."

"That was not meant for you!" she exclaimed, quickly shutting her mouth when she realized the import of her words.

"Well then who, pray tell, was it meant for?" Mr. Bingley frowned.

"Oh, um, the dogs," she said hastily. "I thought to give them a special treat. The servants must have misunderstood me as to which roasts were meant for our table."

"The dogs?" Mr. Bingley said blankly. "You had roasted meat prepared for the dogs?"

"You must be quite fond of them to go to such trouble," Elizabeth observed innocently, sipping from her goblet. "That certainly explains your keen interest in good breeding. It all comes down to the bitch, does it not?"

Mr. Darcy coughed again, turning somewhat red, and Mr. Bingley rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, muttering something that sounded as though it might be a prayer. Miss Bingley stared at Elizabeth, her lips pressed in a thin line and her hands gripping the table.

Mr. Hurst suddenly belched loudly, fanning the effluent away and towards his unfortunate wife, who held a napkin up to her nose.

"Are we going to play cards now?" he suddenly demanded.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Hurst soothed from under her napkin. "Just a few more minutes."

They all ate in silence after that, with Elizabeth excusing herself after the meal to change into her own clothes, promising to rejoin the party after dinner. Fortified by a glass of brandy, she soon reemerged in one of her own, more modest dresses and comfortable slippers. She entered the sitting room and perched on the edge of a settee, book in hand. She did not notice the disappointed looks from Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley when they observed her new attire.

"Miss Eliza prefers reading to cards," Miss Bingley observed.

"What?" Mr. Hurst exclaimed, brow severely wrinkled. "You do not play cards?" he demanded.

"I do, I do," Elizabeth reassured him, suppressing a chortle at the man's expression, somewhere between sighting a ghost in his attic and an urchin in his bath. "Just not tonight, I am afraid. I am quite worn out with caring for my sister and fear I would be but a poor player."

"Strutting and fretting?" Darcy asked.

Elizabeth could not suppress the delighted smile that stole over her face. "Signifying nothing," she agreed, finishing the quote.

"What in the world are you speaking of?" Caroline Bingley asked sharply.

"Just invoking the Bard a bit," Elizabeth noted innocently, well aware that Miss Bingley would be unlikely to recognize Shakespeare if it were a two day-old fish that hit her upside the head. Though she did, Elizabeth thought, have a touch of Lady Macbeth about her at that.

"How is Miss Bennet?" Mr. Bingley suddenly asked, his eyes shooting upward, as if he could see through the floor and straight into Jane's heart.

"She is sleeping," Elizabeth reassured him. "I gave her enough brandy to ensure that."

"You what?" Miss Bingley asked.

"Brandy," Elizabeth repeated.

"Yes, brandy," Mr. Hurst barked, waving his empty glass in the air. A servant promptly refilled it, and quietly brought Elizabeth a glass, as well. She started to decline, well aware that her companions were sure to consider it impolite for a lady to drink spirits in mixed company, and might even consider it unladylike for her to drink such a beverage at all. Then she noticed Mr. Bingley giving her an approving grin, and she raised her glass to him slightly.

"A votre sante," she offered. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were exchanging knowing glances, while Mr. Darcy looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

"You appreciate liquor?" Mr. Darcy enquired.

"Yes," she shot back acidly, "I have an excellent still in the backyard. I am considering applying for a patent."

He colored and hastily looked down at the cards in his hand.

She pretended to read for a time, savoring the brandy, which was excellent, before closing the book gently.

"Well," she said, rising to her feet, "I thank you all for the excellent meal and stimulating company, but I am afraid I must retire. It is my hope that Jane will be well enough tomorrow that we shall be able to return to Longbourn. I would hate to test your patience."

Charles Bingley jumped up and offered her his arm, escorting her from the room, as the others murmured their good nights.

"I think," he said softly, "you will find I am a patient man, Miss Elizabeth. Rest well."

She was hardly out of the room before Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst leapt into action, roundly criticizing Elizabeth's unseemly attire, her bad table manners, her inappropriate comments, and her mannish drinking habits.

"But I suppose her fine eyes compensate for her total unsuitability?" Caroline asked Darcy with a smirk.

"No," he sighed wearily, "no, not at all." His expression suggested that even a moment longer at the card table would be unendurable. He all but vaulted for the door pleading fatigue when they had played the last hand.

It was a long night for the Bennet sisters, too, as Jane's fever grew steadily worse, making it difficult for either of them to sleep. In the early hours of the morning, just as Elizabeth was growing truly concerned, Jane's fever suddenly broke, leaving her sweat-soaked and shivering. Elizabeth helped her sister change her clothes and settle under the covers, stoking the fire.

"You will stay with me?" Jane asked her softly, clutching her sister's hand.

"Of course," Elizabeth responded, stroking Jane's forehead gently. "I will be right here, darling. Try to get some sleep now. You will feel better soon."

Jane smiled faintly, her eyes sinking shut. "I could hardly feel worse," she yawned, dozing off.

"I know the feeling," Elizabeth sighed, settling into a chair next to the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Thank you so much for the reviews - they're immensely encouraging! Okay, what follows is an unforgivable mashup of several P&amp;P original chapters. I do hope the spirit of Jane Austen will not haunt me for it!**_

It was late morning before Elizabeth emerged from Jane's room, regretting the letter she had sent in a moment of weakness the night before asking her mother to come and assess Jane's condition. She wandered down to the sitting room, just as her mother arrived, with the three younger Bennets in tow.

They could hear Mrs. Bennet the moment she stepped over the threshold and all the way up the long corridor, exclaiming over every piece of furniture, every item of bric a brac, even the floor tiles. Elizabeth was surprised she didn't praise the motes of dust dancing in the morning light.

"We are delighted to come and check on poor Jane. She is such a sweet girl, such an excellent temperament. I often tell my girls that they are nothing as compared to her." Mrs. Bennet was explaining loudly to Mr. Bingley as they approached the sitting room. "Oh, Mr. Bingley, it is such a lovely home. I do hope you haven't taken too short a lease?" Elizabeth gritted her teeth at her mother's unsubtle attempt to exfiltrate information from the poor man.

"Oh, you give me far too much credit, Madam. I am afraid I do not think so far ahead; should I decide to quit this place, I am likely to do so all of a sudden. But for the time being, I have no intention of going. I quite like it here."

"That is as I would have thought of you," Elizabeth smiled. "Impulsive seems to be your character."

"I wish I could take that as a compliment, but it's rather pitiful to be so very transparent," he smiled back, while Mrs. Bennet watched with a frown. She was clearly concerned that Elizabeth might be insulting her future son-in-law, but as he did not seem particularly offended, she held her tongue.

"Not at all," Elizabeth chuckled. "It does not necessarily follow that a deep character is better or worse than one easily understood, does it?"

"Lizzy," Mrs. Bennet could stand it no longer and thought it best to err on the side of caution, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.''

"I did not realize you were so interested in character study," Bingley quickly said to Elizabeth. "It must be an interesting pursuit."

"I imagine it his hard to find interesting characters for your amusement out here in the country, where the society is so unvarying," Mr. Darcy interjected, doing his best to sound disdainful, rather than intrigued.

"Ah, but people themselves vary so much," she rejoined merrily, "there is something new in them nearly every day."

"Yes, indeed!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, giving the gentleman a look so ill favored it was a hair's breadth away from being socially unacceptable. "I can assure you that there is just as much going on here in that regard as there is in town."

"Really?" Miss Bingley asked sweetly. "And why is that?"

"I cannot see that London has any great advantage," Mrs. Bennet asserted, "except perhaps the shops and the parks. And, of course, it is also dirty and full of beggars. Why, the last time I was there, I could scarce breathe for all the coal dust, and I hardly knew where to step the streets were so filthy with horse manure. The country can be so much pleasanter, don't you think, Mr. Bingley?"

Elizabeth felt the gorge rise in her throat when she saw her mother actually bat her eyelashes at the man.

"When I am in the country, I certainly think so," he said with remarkable tact, raising Elizabeth's estimation of him, "and yet when I am in town, I feel the same. They both have their merits."

"Which just proves you have a pleasing disposition, Mr. Bingley. Unlike that gentleman," she glared at Mr. Darcy, "who seems to think the country is nothing at all. "

"Oh no, Mama," Elizabeth said, feeling the heat on her face, "you misunderstood Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there is not so great a variety of people here as there is in town. As in, the population of London is bigger. You must allow that is so. I, for one, would welcome meeting others scientifically inclined, as there are not so many in this area." Only her mother could provoke her to defend the dreaded Mr. Darcy.

The older woman sniffed. "Tis a crowded place, I'll give you that, but this is a large neighborhood, too. Why, we have socialized with at least 24 different families, and many of them are fine people. Even if they do not share your particular hobby, Lizzy."

Elizabeth's blush deepened to the point that she appeared to be at some risk of asphyxiation. Caroline Bingley, on the other hand, smiled broadly and flicked a glance at Mr. Darcy, who resembled a church gargoyle in that exact moment.

"Oh, ah," Elizabeth interjected frantically, attempting to change the subject, "did Sir William Lucas come by this morning, as threatened, er, promised?"

"Indeed he did," her mother responded enthusiastically. "Such a kind gentleman, the very soul of kindness. And so fashionable, so worldly." Elizabeth thought Sir Lucas about as fashionable as the dowager sow in their barnyard and as worldly as a turnip. "Do you not agree Mr. Bingley?" Mrs. Bennet plowed on without waiting for an answer. "And his family is most amiable. Pity the children are so homely, though Charlotte is our particular friend. Yes, she is a good girl, though strikingly unattractive. Not like our Jane, whom everyone agrees is the prettiest girl in the county. Why, at only 15, an older gentleman, a friend of my brother-in-law Phillips, who is a lawyer in Meryton, fell completely in love with her," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "He never did offer for her, but he wrote her the most enchanting verses."

"Which promptly killed his affection," Elizabeth interrupted impatiently. "I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry to kill love?"

"I thought poetry was the food of love?" Darcy jumped in.

"A stout, hearty love, maybe. But a thin, pallid one, formed out of the lover's own self regard? I am convinced one sonnet will completely starve it into submission."

Darcy hid his smile behind his hand.

Mrs. Bennet narrowed her eyes at her daughter, suspecting she was being mocked in some manner. "Of course, Elizabeth could be quite pretty, too, if only she wished to be, but she is always about that barn, fiddling with her contraptions, and in trousers, if you can believe it," Mrs. Bennet waved a hand airily in the air. "Covered in soot and grease half the time."

Elizabeth's mouth fell open, and she made an inarticulate noise of dismay. Mr. Darcy watched her closely, eager to see if she might use one of her little paper gunpowder snaps as a distraction again.

"Now, it is no use scolding me, Elizabeth," her mother sniffed. "You know I am right. And what's more, I think you do it simply to try my patience. My poor neves," Mrs. Bennet moaned to Miss Bingley.

"Your nerves?" Caroline prompted, exchanging delighted grins with her sister.

"Oh, yes, you have no idea. No idea! With five daughters all at home, not one yet married, and Mr. Bennet like to die any day and..."

"Mother!" Elizabeth all but shouted, trying to forestall any disclosures that could be truly harmful to Mr. Bingley's interest in her sister. "Do you not wish to see Jane?"

With many vows of undying maternal affection and much fluttering about nerves, Mrs. Bennet allowed Elizabeth to drag her up to see Jane. Once the devoted mother was able to determine to her satisfaction that her eldest child would be fine, she promptly returned with her daughters to the sitting room.

"I am so very sorry," she sighed, like a typhoon on the sea, "but Jane is still unwell. She may need to stay here at least a week."

"Why mother," Elizabeth jumped in, all innocence, "did you not just tell Jane she was improving quickly and may be well enough to get out of bed this very evening? I believe she may be able to come home as soon as tomorrow."

The look Mrs. Bennet cast her least favorite daughter was indeed like the inside of the darkest storm cloud. Mr. Bingley saved Elizabeth from any admonishments, however, by declaring that Jane must surely stay several days and not risk a relapse, which brought the sun back out on the older woman's countenance.

"Oh, Mr. Bingley," Lydia interrupted, and Elizabeth gritted her teeth. It was a close call as to whether her mother or her youngest sister was most likely to say something regrettable. "Did you not promise to have a ball, here in your lovely home?"

"Lydia!" Elizabeth gasped.

"Oh yes," Kitty clapped her hands together excitedly. "Please do! Please have a ball!"

Elizabeth fixed Kitty with a glare that could have turned even Perseus to stone, and Kitty fell abruptly silent. She knew her sister sometimes carried tiny blow darts concealed in her sleeve and did not wish to be stung by one of the small missiles.

"Oh, er, yes," Mr. Bingley stuttered, "I suppose I did promise. We shall start planning one as soon as your sister is well."

The gale of giggles and sighs that met his words were bad enough, but when Mary solemnly declared that balls were frivolous and invited mischief, it was all finally too much for Elizabeth. She jumped to her feet.

"Yes, well, it was good of you to come, Mama, and now you have seen that Jane is better and we must not burden Mr. Bingley any further." She saw the mutinous set to her mother's jaw and quickly changed tack. "And in any case, I am sure he would like to call on Jane himself to be assured that she is well."

"Indeed, I would," Mr. Bingley agreed, proving again to be a quicker study than Elizabeth would have thought, "But I would not wish to neglect your mother and sisters while they are my guests."

"Well, then," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, hauling herself hastily to her feet. "I should not keep you any longer. It is most kind of you to care for her, most kind. And to tolerate our Lizzy, too."

Even Mr. Darcy cast an openly sympathetic eye at Elizabeth at that point.

"Oh, look," Elizabeth cried, "the carriage is here. Would you not like to show Miss Bingley your carriage, mother? She was telling me of her surprise that our only vehicle was my rude phaeton."

Her mother erupted in denials, hastily reassuring Miss Bingley that their carriage was fine, very fine, one of the best in the area, unlike Elizabeth's unfortunate rattletrap. She dragged Miss Bingley away, either not noticing or not caring that the other woman shrank from her touch. The three younger girls trailed after their mother, tittering and whispering, with Mary harrumphing and crossing her arms. Elizabeth watched them go with a sigh of relief. She promptly fled to Jane's room, mumbling that she must check on the patient, and would take her lunch there.

Later that afternoon, she re-emerged to join the others in their afternoon leisure in one of the sitting rooms. It was a pleasant place, with the afternoon sun streaming in through long windows, bringing a warm glow to the large and airy space. Mr. Darcy was sitting at a desk across the room, with Caroline Bingley leaning over his shoulder. Mr. Bingley was reading a newspaper, and Mrs. Hurst was sitting watching her sister. Mr. Hurst was sprawled across a window seat, asleep. Every few minutes, he would give a loud snort and a vague grumble. Elizabeth nodded to each of them in turn, even Mr. Hurst, and settled herself in a wingback chair with her book.

"How quickly you write, and so neatly!" Miss Bingley exclaimed, looking at Mr. Darcy's paper. "What is that pen?"

"You are mistaken," he said evenly. "I write very slowly and only tolerably well. As for the pen, it is a nib of my own design, which holds more ink, dispenses it more evenly, and rarely requires mending."

Elizabeth could not restrain herself from peering at the pen with interest.

"Are you writing to your dear sister, Georgiana?" Miss Bingley inquired, shamelessly scanning Mr. Darcy's page.

"Apparently," he responded dryly.

"Oh, will you not give her my very best regards?"

"Yes, you have already expressed your wish that I do so several times today."

"Tell her how I long to see her again."

"Of course."

"And that I asked after her harp, and wanted to know if she likes it and is still practicing."

"Perhaps you should like to write to her yourself?" he said pointedly, without looking up.

"Oh, no," Miss Bingley responded, unruffled. "For you write with so much more grace and wit than do I."

"Not at all. I write sparingly and simply."

Mr. Bingley guffawed. "Mr. Darcy writes with as many four syllable words and engineering terms as anyone I have seen, even when he is just inquiring about the weather or one's health."

As Mr. Darcy failed to respond further, she drifted away across the room to Elizabeth.

"And what are you reading today, Miss Eliza?"

"It is a text by Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and I go by Elizabeth, I am afraid."

"I have not heard of that one," Miss Bingley commented, wrinkling her nose. "Is it some kind of romance?"

"One might say that," Elizabeth answered seriously, noting that Mr. Darcy's lip curled upward slightly. "It is about what makes up the female character."

"Oh," Miss Bingley exclaimed, "then perhaps I should read it! For I know a great deal of what the female character should contain. Far too few in modern society meet the standards, I fear."

"Oh, I don't know, Caroline. I think every young lady I know is accomplished. Why, I can scarcely think of one who cannot paint tables, cover skreens, and net purses," her brother said amiably.

"Oh, Charles! You sell young ladies far too short. One who is truly accomplished must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and modern languages. But more than that, she must have a certain something in her air and manner, a sense of her own superiority, and yet still be demure. A private notion of élan and style."

Miss Bingley clearly hoped that her use of a continental word, not to mention her own supercilious attitude, would make it clear she considered herself to merit the classification under discussion. Elizabeth, however, just wondered if the woman realized that élan and style basically meant the same thing.

"All this she must possess," Mr. Darcy observed, unable to resist joining a judgmental conversation, "but also something more substantial. She must be engaged in the improvement of the mind through extensive reading and a basic understanding of the natural world. I estimate I know only a half-dozen women I would consider accomplished."

"Same," Miss Bingley nodded firmly.

"Indeed?" Elizabeth replied archly. "I am surprised you should know any at all!"

"Are you so severe upon your sex?" Mr. Darcy exclaimed.

"Not at all," Elizabeth replied evenly. "In fact, quite the opposite, as I believe in holding actual women to achievable standards. You have described fictional characters, my friends. Galatea, if you please, and remember that even she disappointed in the end."

As Miss Bingley had no idea whom Elizabeth might be referring to, she held her tongue, no easy feat for her. Charles Bingley, however, laughed out loud.

"Oh bravo, Miss Elizabeth! Or brava, I should say. You would instruct us that it is wise not to fall in love with our own muse, is that right? But surely, you might make some exceptions?"

Elizabeth gave him a genuine smile. "Indeed. For you sir, all exceptions can be made."

"And for me?" Mr. Darcy asked, frowning slightly when he realized he sounded a bit plaintive.

"None for you sir," Elizabeth's had a mischievous glint, "for you neither give nor take quarter, I suspect."

"Nor do you, my lady," he returned. "And what do you think is good womanly comportment?"

"I personally like a woman given to a little engineering," she smiled at him.

"Will you not take a little exercise with me, Miss Eliza?" Miss Bingley suddenly interrupted, not liking the mutual admiration she perceived in the exchange, even if the combatants themselves did not. "A turn about the room can be so envigorating."

Elizabeth, who generally walked three or more miles a day and lifted heavy ingots every morning for thirty minutes in order to strengthen her arms for the forge, looked nonplussed at the concept that walking around the room could be considered exercise. Nonetheless, in deference to her host, if not his sister, she agreeably placed her book on a sidetable and rose to her feet. Miss Bingley promptly laced her arm through Elizabeth's and began pulling her along in a circumnavigation of the room. Elizabeth could not help noticing that the other woman walked in a long, swaying stride, her hips swiveling in a figure eight pattern.

"Will you not walk with us, Mr. Darcy?" Miss Bingley called to him.

"No," he responded, finally placing his pen on the desk and looking up at the two women, "as I am sure you do not truly wish me to."

"Whatever can you mean by that?"

"I can think of only two reasons why you should wish to walk about the room together. Either you are in each other's confidence and wish to tell secrets, in which case I would only be in the way, or you are aware that your figures are displayed to greatest advantage when you walk, in which case I can best admire you from over here."

"For shame," Miss Bingley giggled, squeezing Elizabeth's arm. "Mr. Darcy is quite scandalous. How shall we punish him, Miss Eliza?"

"I suspect Mr. Darcy subscribes to an old testament morality," Elizabeth answered archly, "And I should not like to lose my own eye in taking a poke at his."

"You mistake me," Mr. Darcy scowled. "I am not so severe."

"Are you not?"

"Oh, I think she has you there, Darcy," Mr. Bingley interjected. "Miss Elizabeth, do you think it would be acceptable for me to visit your sister now and see how she fares?"

Elizabeth readily agreed and left the room, chatting easily with the amiable young man, while Mr. Darcy watched them go with an envious cast to his eye.

Dinner that night was somewhat less trying than the night before, though Caroline Bingley asked Elizabeth endless questions about her family, and Mr. Darcy remained completely silent. Mr. Hurst was, of course, in his cups halfway through the meal, and suddenly began to sing a tavern limerick, which while entertaining was not very appropriate with ladies present. Elizabeth struggled not to laugh out loud, and Louisa Hurst promptly bundled her profane husband up out of his chair, exclaiming that he was clearly unwell. Neither returned to the dining room or to the parlor for the rest of the night, though Jane was able to join them after dinner. She and Mr. Bingley sat in one corner of the room, quietly conversing with their faces quite close together. Miss Bingley was fortunately distracted, as she successfully badgered Mr. Darcy into turning pages for her while she played at the pianoforte. With her two adversaries thus engaged and her sister on the mend, Elizabeth happily read her book, determined that they would depart in the morning


	6. Chapter 6: Mr Collins Comes to Town

_**Sorry it's been so long, but I will keep going when I can! Thanks for all the fantastic reviews - like manna from Heaven.**_

Breakfast was not an unpleasant affair. Elizabeth was happily surprised by how affectionate Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were toward her sister, and even somewhat cordial to her. Mr. Darcy was polite and Mr. Bingley attentive, if not fawning. Even Mr. Hurst managed to stay awake, with a few monosyllabic human interactions, no less.

When the groom brought the phaeton to the front, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst raised their eyebrows and whispered to one another energetically. Mr. Bingley only had eyes for Jane and did not even notice the arrival of the carriage, and Mr. Hurst had already turned to go back to the house. Mr. Darcy, however, pursed his lips and stepped closer to the ungainly vehicle, running his fingers along the wheels and tugging at the bolts. Elizabeth could tell he badly wanted to crouch down and look at the axle, and his struggle between curiosity and propriety amused her greatly.

"Well, then," Elizabeth said loudly, startling Mr. Darcy, "if you're quite finished fondling my chariot, I suspect we best be on our way."

A tide of red rose up from Mr. Darcy's chin all the way to his hairline. "I beg your pardon," he spluttered, "I fondled nothing."

Miss Bingley fanned herself with her hand and stared hopefully at him. Smirking, Elizabeth arched an eyebrow and accepted the groom's help up into the carriage, who eyed the vehicle appreciatively. Mr. Bingley sprang forward so fast he nearly crashed headlong into the open door, windmilling his arms in order to avoid falling to the ground. He managed to steady himself in time to hand Jane into the carriage, smiling apologetically at her. Jane returned his smile, pretending not to notice his clumsiness. She had barely settled herself on the seat and drawn the door shut when Elizabeth signaled the horses with a smart crack of her riding crop, and the phaeton shot forward out of the drive.

"My word," Mr. Bingley exclaimed. "I've never seen a carriage move like that."

"She's done something to it," Mr. Darcy muttered, narrowing his eyes.

"That was the most monstrous...thing I have ever seen," Caroline Bingley declared, crossing her arms over her chest, her sister copying her movements and nodding firmly.

"Indeed," Mr. Darcy sighed, and they all trooped back into the house for an afternoon of cards and ennui.

Meanwhile, Jane and Elizabeth returned home to find their mother twittering about the house, suspended somewhere between rage and excitement.

"Girls!" She exclaimed upon seeing them, "come in at once! He will be here soon, he will, and all must be ready!"

"Who, mama?" Elizabeth asked calmly.

"Why, Mr. Collins, you silly girl!" Her mother exclaimed, waving her hands excitedly.

"Mr. Who?" Elizabeth inquired, brows furrowed.

"Only the heir of Longbourn! The man who shall turn us out into the hedgerows, once Mr. Bennet dies, which is sure to be any day," Her mother shrilled, spinning on her heel abruptly to Jane, her tone shifting to a sweet hum. "And how is that wonderful gentleman, Mr. Bingley?"

"He...he is well," Jane stammered, trying to adjust to the sudden shift in mood.

Mrs. Bennet glanced again at her second daughter and sniffed. "Take that ridiculous thing off your head at once," she instructed, pointing at the brimmed driving hat Elizabeth had fashioned for herself, "but do NOT change any of your other clothing, do you hear me? No boots, no breeches, none of your unseemly behavior, young lady."

Elizabeth started to protest, and then thought better of it. "I shall be the very picture of decorum, mother," she smiled, while Mrs. Bennet eyed her suspiciously, sniffing again. Elizabeth promptly sought out her father, who was hiding in the library, as usual. She knocked briefly and entered, not waiting for a response and chuckled gently at Mr. Bennet's alarmed look.

"Are you certain you do not wish me to install a lock on this door?" She teased.

"Alas," he sighed, "I suspect it would only be as a red flag to a raging bull."

"Indeed," she agreed. "So, if I recall correctly, Mr. Collins is the distant cousin who is the beneficiary of the entail. Do we have a sense of what to expect from this special delegation?"

"I have had a letter," her father confirmed. "And based upon its content, I believe we should expect a most fatuous ninny. He has an unhealthy regard for his patroness, one Lady Catherine De Bourgh, though it appears to be a close contest whether he holds herself or himself in higher regard. As for his intentions, his letter was obscure on the subject. Hopefully, he has not come to do away with me and seize the estate."

"Shall we make a game of it?" Elizabeth enquired merrily. "I do believe Mr. Bingley slipped me a bottle of some very excellent brandy upon our leave taking. A sip for every time he says "I" or "myself" or "Lady Catherine"?"

Her father's eyes gleamed.

"And also for words of three syllables or more or of acute obscurity."

"We shall be quite indisposed by the end of supper."

"Or perhaps by the end of the first course," he countered.

"If I may sit next to you," Elizabeth offered, "I shall be able to conceal the bottle under the table and refill our cups using my pressure dispenser and tube, if you can supply the opaque horn cups."

"Done," he declared.

And so it was that Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth gave Mr. Collins an increasingly warm reception, if not a roast, during his maiden dinner with the family. If the newly-minted vicar was somewhat bemused by the hilarity that followed his every utterance, Mrs. Bennet, who was foolish but no fool, was highly suspicious.

"As I, myself, professed to Lady Catherine, dear Lady Catherine, just yesterday," Mr. Collins pronounced, as Elizabeth and her father repeatedly tipped their cups back, "the state of matrimony is most felicitous. I am quite fortunate that I have so many pulchritudinous cousins of the distaff condition, which I told Lady Catherine, and moreover, I myself have no wish to be the cause of any calamitous misfortune. If you take my meaning, as Lady Catherine, my dear patroness, Lady Catherine, certainly did when I told her so," Mr. Collins intoned, flicking an anxious look at his inexplicably thirsty host and deciding to focus instead on Mrs. Bennet. She suddenly relaxed in her seat, no longer paying any attention to her husband, and smiled knowingly. Jane frowned as she watched the byplay. Mary stared intently at a crack in the ceiling, while her younger sisters whispered to each other, tittering loudly with occasional glimpses at Mr. Collins.

"I believe I do take your meaning, Mr. Collins. And I must say, I heartily agree," Mrs. Bennet quickly responded. Mr. Collins nodded vigorously.

"I thought you might, dear lady. And I am ecstatically grateful to you for your superlative attentions to myself." His eyes wandered blatantly over the young ladies at the table, his gaze promptly alighting on Jane, whose long, slender neck was well displayed, as she had turned to stare at Elizabeth. As she pursed her rosy lips, Mr. Collins dashed some sweat from his brow with a lacy handkerchief he kept tucked into his sleeve.

Mrs. Bennet cleared her throat and lowered her voice, leaning toward the pastor. "Our Jane has attracted the attention of a fine young gentleman," she said pointedly. "He has 5,000 a year, so we are very proud of her. We expect him to offer for her any day."

Jane, who more or less overheard her mother, blushed violently and stared at her plate.

"But Elizabeth, my second daughter, is also quite lovely, do you not think?" Mrs. Bennet asked In a low voice. "She is considered the second or perhaps third handsomest girl in the county."

Mr. Collins flushed and squirmed as he ogled his cousin, who at this point was far too drunk to notice, as was Mr. Bennet, having consumed nearly the entire bottle of brandy between them already. Elizabeth began to hiccup loudly.

"And she has quite a stout constitution," Mrs. Bennet remarked, narrowing her eyes, "as you can see."

"Lady Catherine says that a stout constitution is a good indicator for the ability to bear healthy children, in both women and horses," Mr. Collins responded absently, still staring at Elizabeth, who was now breathing into a pig's bladder she had thought to bring with her just for this eventuality. She often developed the hiccups when imbibing spirits, and it seemed to cure them. Occasionally.

"I could not agree more," Mrs. Bennet smiled.

"What did you just say?" Mr. Bennet asked suspiciously. "Did I hear you aright?"

"Mr. Collins was complimenting your daughters," Mrs. Bennet intervened, "on how well mannered they are." As if on cue, Elizabeth belched loudly, and Mr. Bennet dissolved into guffaws, as Kitty and Lydia exploded with laughter. Even Jane giggled delicately behind her hand.

"Ah, and, quite amusing, as well," Mr. Collins said, with the air of a man who suspected he might be the butt of a joke, but wasn't quite sure.

"There is a crack," Mary suddenly declared, pointing a finger at the ceiling.

For some reason, this set Mr. Bennet off again, and he laughed helplessly, tears streaming down his face. "Yes," he gasped, "dear girl, we are quite cracked here in this household."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Bennet declared loudly. "You are a respectable gentlemen, and your daughters all refined young ladies." Elizabeth was unable to stifle another burp.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," her mother snapped, "excuse yourself, girl. Take up your digestion elsewhere."

"Quite right," Elizabeth responded, all too quickly, "I apologize for my indisposition, cousin. I hope you will forgive me."

Elizabeth stood and leaned forward, pretending to retrieve her napkin, but really lifting the empty brandy bottle - unaware that she was also giving Mr. Collins an excellent view of her décolletage.

"Oh, I assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth," he said, licking his lips, "there is nothing to forgive. Nothing at all."


	7. Chapter 7

**_wow - super comments! It's because of you that I post again so soon! This chapter more steam than steampunk, but hopefully enjoyable..._**

The next morning, Elizabeth grumbled as she pulled on a pair of slippers.

"There will be mud," she observed darkly, glaring at her sisters.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "And you, like every other respectable girl in this county, will pick your way delicately around it, conveniently showing just a bit of ankle as you lift your skirt just so." She demonstrated with a deft twitch of her dress, coquettishly batting her eyelashes. "And if you are very clever, indeed, there will be some excellent mud to avoid just as officers are passing in review."

"Are you certain you are only 15?" Elizabeth asked with a raised eyebrow. "In any case, I would prefer to wear my boots and keep my skirts at civil length."

"Then you shall never find a husband," Lydia declared, to Kitty's giggles.

"I hope to find a husband who cares for more than a finely-turned ankle," Elizabeth countered.

"Then you are a fool," Lydia laughed, "for that is all they care about, in the end."

"It is most improper to speculate what a man cares for in a woman," Mary chastised her youngest sister, "you should not speak of it."

"Ah, just so, Mary," Jane said gently. "We should have no more improper speech on the way to Meryton."

"Did you say something about improper speech?" Came a voice at her elbow, causing all five Bennet girls to jump.

"Why, Mr. Collins," Jane said, recovering quickly, "how nice to see you this morning. We were just preparing to walk to Meryton."

"Yes, I am well aware of this actuality, as I am to accompany you."

"Accompany?" Elizabeth frowned. "Why, cousin, I cannot imagine why you would wish to - I should think you would find idle girlish chatter quite tiresome, and ribbon shopping not to your taste."

"On the contrary, my dear Miss Elizabeth," he beamed up at her, being somewhat shorter than she was, "I quite enjoy the company of those of the female persuasion, and believe I may be of no small service. It often requires a man's eye to select a ribbon that is decorative and yet sufficiently modest for a lady of some refinement. Of course, you are all not quite so refined as my Patroness, Lady Catherine, and her most excellent daughter, Miss de Bourgh, but you are still entitled to the advice of a man of taste."

"Err, quite," Jane said quickly, before the looks of outrage on her sisters' faces could take verbal form. "We would quite appreciate your company, as well as your, ah, skill with the ribbon."

"What made you think to join us?" Elizabeth asked sourly, as she tied the bonnet strings around her chin.

"Your father commanded it," Mr. Collins answered, puffing his chest up proudly. "I was engaged in perusing a most important and very large tome with him in his library..."

"Did you say 'in his library'?" Elizabeth interrupted.

"Why, yes. We are both well-read men, so there is no explanation needed in wondering why we should engage in that activity in each other's company, nor why he would entrust me with his daughters."

"No explanation needed at all," Elizabeth repeated with a chuckle.

"Let us go then!" Jane cried, clapping her hands together and causing Mr. Collins to startle. Elizabeth quickly shot out the door, but to no avail: once upon the road, Mr. Collins surged forward and politely offered one arm to Jane and one to Elizabeth. And so they found themselves attached to his person for the entire stroll to town, condemned to listed to his non-stop observations about Lady Catherine, his plans for Hunsford, his new parsonage, and his various views of the proper deportment for young ladies. Each of these declarations met with barely concealed merriment from Kitty and Lydia, great admiration from Mary, and growing fatigue from the eldest Bennet sisters.

The moment they arrived in town, Elizabeth detached herself from Mr. Collins, requesting his gallantry in walking ahead and scouting for mud.

"Anything for you, Miss Elizabeth," he agreed, attempting to buss her hand, but finding it curiously absent as his lips descended. He ended up nearly kissing his own palm, much to the obvious amusement of Lydia and hurriedly strode ahead, coattails flapping behind him.

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged looks.

"What do you think that is all about?" Elizabeth murmured. Jane, who had her suspicions, just chose to shrug.

Just then, a small squeal emanated from Lydia's direction.

"It's Mr. Denny!" She exclaimed, in a stage whisper that surely carried up the street straight to the ear of the man in question. "He is returned!"

"And he is with someone," Kitty observed, peering at the young officer's companion. As the two men walked by on the other side of the street, and all five sisters - even Mary - drew in a sharp breath.

"That's someone, alright," Lydia gushed. The men tramped on down the street, suddenly turning and crossing the street, heading right for them.

"Keep walking!" Elizabeth hissed.

They were just outside the ribbon store by the time Mr. Denny reached the Bennet sisters, and the introductions were quickly made all around. His friend, Mr. George Wickham, had just received his commission as a Lieutenant and was to be stationed with the local garrison, along with Mr. Denny. As much as Lydia and Kitty preferred officers in their smart, red uniforms, both agreed later that Mr. Wickham looked very fine, even in mufti. He was tallish, with long, wheat-colored hair, tied neatly at the nape of his neck, which was thick but by no means bullish. He had a broad chest, which tapered into a narrow waist and hips. A strong jaw, shapely lips, and a broad forehead topped off this uncommonly virile form. When he told the ladies he had a head for figures and hoped to soon be joining the Corps of Royal Engineers, Elizabeth unconsciously took a step forward. Mr. Wickham smiled encouragingly at her.

Just then, the clip clop of well-shod horses interrupted the pitter patter of the lightly pheromonal exchange.

"Well met, Miss Bennet," called out one of the riders, who turned out to be none other than Mr. Bingley. "We were just on our way to Netherfield to call on you!"

Jane colored, and smiled slightly at the gentleman, averting her eyes modestly. "Then I am glad we have saved you the trouble. Although you are always welcome."

Charles Bingley swayed dangerously in the saddle. "Oh, um, yes. Thank you."

Mr. Darcy, who was beside him on a monstrous black stallion, rolled his eyes. "The invitation," he prompted.

"Right!" Mr. Bingley responded, straightening back up. "We wished to warn you, er, that is to inform you... Yes, and to invite you... There will be a ball at Netherfield, you see. Next Tuesday. I do hope you will come."

"All of us?" Lydia interrupted, much to Elizabeth's dismay. The pinched look on Mr. Darcy's face deepened, as though he had gone from smelling a rotted egg to a decomposed corpse. He stared fixedly at his own rather well-manicured fingernails.

"Of course," Mr. Bingley laughed, unfazed. "All of you." Suddenly, he noticed the presence of the two other men and halted uncertainly. Mr. Darcy glanced up and followed Mr. Bingley's gaze, freezing when he saw George Wickham, who looked up at Mr. Darcy at the very same moment.

Elizabeth noticed with great interest that Mr. Darcy instantly turned a bright shade of crimson, even redder than he had been when she had accused him of fondling her carriage. Mr. Wickham, on the other hand, had gone deathly pale.

Well, well, she thought. Isn't that interesting? They are obviously known to each other.

At the moment she thought that, Mr. Darcy yanked his horse's head around and spurred him into a quick trot and then a gallop and Mr. Wickham turned on his heel and strode right into the ribbon shop.

Very interesting, indeed, Elizabeth mused.

Mr. Bingley watched his friend's hasty exit with unconcealed confusion, though he at least had the presence of mind to beg leave of them before following suit and riding away. Mr. Denny, likewise, scratched his head, but just shrugged. Electing not to shop for ribbons, he excused himself, as well, and continued down the street.

"Shall we?" Elizabeth asked her sisters, indicating the ribbon store.

"You?" Kitty asked in disbelief.

"Are you not going to the blacksmith?" Jane inquired.

"Yes, yes, of course," Elizabeth said dismissively. "But I shall stop here first to keep you all company."

Lydia snorted and crossed her arms, but Elizabeth ignored her and strode into the shop. Soon, her sisters trailed in behind her, immediately distracted by the lace and brightly colored ribbons and bolts of cloth.

"I am actually quite discerning, when it comes to ribbons," said Mr. Wickham, who had quickly sidled up to Elizabeth.

"Perhaps you and my cousin should have something of a contest, them," Elizabeth smiled, glancing over at Mr. Collins, who was examining what looked like lacy women's drawers. "He has assured me is quite a good judge of such things, himself."

"You doubt his word?" Mr. Wickham laughed quietly at her scowl.

"Not at all," she reassured him dryly, "just the extent of my own interest. This is not exactly my favorite shop."

"That is curious," he gave her a calculating look. "I thought every pretty girl was in love with ribbons. So, if not, what, may I ask, is your favorite shop?"

"The blacksmith," she answered promptly.

"Mine, as well!" He laughed delightedly. "Shall we go there instead, then?"

Elizabeth enthusiastically agreed and prepared to depart on the handsome young man's arm, but not before her two youngest sisters professed great interest in the blacksmith, as well, and then Mr. Collins insisted that he accompany them.

Elizabeth huffed quietly in frustration. "Mary, Jane, you may as well join us, too."

Jane smiled and tugged along a confused and indignant Mary, who protested that she did not care for that "hot and dirty place."

As they strolled down the street, Mr. Wickham asked, with an air of extreme unconcern, "so, it appears you know the two gentlemen we just saw on horseback."

Elizabeth smirked, as he clearly sought to elicit information from her, and decided not to make it too easy on him.

"So it appears," she agreed.

Mr. Wickham glanced at her nervously and cleared his throat.

"Have they been in the area long?"

"Not long," Elizabeth responded.

The corner of Mr. Wickham's mouth turned up slightly. "You are remarkably succinct, Miss Elizabeth, when you wish to be."

"Indeed," she said.

Now Mr. Wickham laughed. "I ask," he finally gave in, "because Mr. Darcy is known to me. In fact, we grew up together."

"Did you?" Elizabeth asked, now quite intrigued, in turn.

"Yes, not an entirely happy story, I am afraid. Is his, ah, sister here with him?"

"No," Elizabeth responded. "Just Mr. Bingley's sisters."

"Just as well," he mused, "for she is quite an arrogant young woman."

"Takes after her brother, does she?" Elizabeth enquired sweetly, and Mr. Wickham shot her a wide smile.

"That she does. You are most perceptive, Miss Elizabeth."

They had no more occasion for conversation on the topic just then, however, as they had arrived at the blacksmith, and Elizabeth began placing her order. She noted with some satisfaction that Mr. Wickham seemed quite interested in her purchases.

Mr. Wickham accompanied the young ladies almost all the way home, telling Elizabeth, in a low voice, his story about Mr. Darcy. It was quite a sad tale, in which Mr. Darcy denied the dashing hero his rightful inheritance out of jealousy. The dastardly Mr. Darcy had made it clear that Mr. Wickham, the son of his father's steward, was too far beneath him to have secured the elder Mr. Darcy's true regard in his last will and testament.

"And so you see," Mr. Wickham sighed, "we left on bad terms, though I could certainly forgive him, for the sake of our long history together, if only he weren't too hard-hearted to afford me the opportunity."

"That is awful," Elizabeth declared, her eyes flashing.

"Your sympathy is a salve to a deep wound," Mr. Wickham replied, reaching for her hand and touching it to her lips. "I am afraid I must take my leave of you now, but may I call on you another time?"

"Of course," Elizabeth immediately answered, blushing faintly.

"Until then," he said warmly, also taking his leave of her sisters, who trailed a short distance behind, and even nodded at Mr. Collins. The girls all teased her the rest of the way home, but she was too pleased with herself and too outraged with Mr. Darcy to pay them any mind.

She might have been a good deal less pleased and more outraged if she had known that Mr. Wickham promptly made for town, where he visited one Miss King, whose hand he also kissed, and then the blacksmith's young daughter he had just met with Elizabeth to secure a private meeting with her later in the week. Finally, once the sun had gone down, after he had lost several rounds of dice, he retired to the hayloft with a pretty tavern maid, kissing rather more than her hand.


End file.
